Late Winter
it is still outside, the hills are static their shape, their surface, their life unseen wind chills and in the trees the pine cones sing a cold song of the dying winter a flower is forgotten by the frost its purple head needs no big images there will be no echo when it falls sorrow ...
You think fingers!
When I was a boy, I took violin lessons. I remember playing Vivaldi in a room with a blue carpet and high windows. The teacher listened and made remarks, most of which to the benefit of my musical development. One time however, the teacher, a woman who must have been in her early thirties, noticed ...